Leaving the Shadows
by equisetum
Summary: Vengeance brought them together in a quest to destroy the Covenant. Now they're on the run, from the intelligence world, and just maybe from themselves.
1. The Present

Title: Leaving the Shadows

Category: Set about 5 years after Crossings.

Summary: Sydney and Sark worked together to destroy the Covenant. Along the way they became more than partners. Now they are on the run, hoping to disappear until it all blows over.

Disclaimer: All characters owned by JJ Abrams and others.

(Sark)

Every night I send a silent prayer to a god I don't believe in: she is here with me. She chose me. Most mornings I am of a different mood. We are living in purgatory, Sydney in particular, and it hurts me to watch her pain. All our plans are falling apart. We came here after that disaster of a mission in Paris, hoping to slip across the border into Canada. From there it's on to Chicago, as we fly and drive and backtrack and slowly make are way across the continent, before disappearing off the grid. We just need time: a year, two at most, for things to cool down. After that, maybe the rubble will have cleared. Maybe we will be free.

(Sydney)

_ I am running, running, running. I have always been running, with the sound of pounding feet behind me and bullets ricocheting off pavement, off the alley walls. He is ahead of me, with the getaway car. Almost there. I am so close I can taste the escape. And then there is the sting of a bullet in my calf, another in my thigh. I stumble, trip, and fall. They are on me in seconds, dragging me up, pointing a gun to my temple…_

(Sark)

She is up with a gasp, blanket thrown off and feet landing hard on the wood floor. I know without looking that she is reaching under the pillow for the gun she thinks is there. This time she settles for grabbing the alarm clock, holding it prepped to launch. Moonlight from the windows highlights her strained muscles in blue.

"What's happening? Where am I?"

"Sydney, you're here. You had a nightmare."

Her grip relaxes slightly.

"My gun. Where's my gun?"

"We moved it, remember? To the drawer." Because every time this happens you point something at me. And I'd rather be hit by the alarm clock than by a bullet. "Come back to bed, Sydney."

She looks at me suspiciously before setting down the clock without a sound and sliding back into bed. But she is breathing hard and I feel a fevered heat from her side of the bed. She studiously keeps to the other side of the bed.

"Are you okay? Do you want me to get you anything?"

I don't ask about the dream directly.

"I just want to sleep."

She turns on her side, with her back to me. I extend a hand and slide it down her arm, gauging her response. Her skin is slicked with sweat. She doesn't push me away, but neither does she melt in the caress. I whisper good night and pull my hand back to my side.

(Sydney)

But sleep doesn't come to me. I hear his breathing slow, but I know better than that. I turn to him, into his strong chest, and sure enough he wraps me in his arms, his chin at the crown of my head. I move a hand down his chest, down the smooth ridges of his abdomen, and his breathing quickens. I nuzzle into his neck, kiss down his jugular, bite softly at the inner terminus of his collarbone. Our legs are tangled together. I push his shoulder down into the mattress and stretch out on top of him, bracing on my elbows.

"Please…"

He comes alive with a groan and uses his weight to flip us over. The feel of his body on top of mine is a lens that focuses me and blocks out all the suffering of this life: Danny's death, Will's ruined life, Francie's death, betrayals, my history with SD-6, the CIA, the Covenant. And with Sark.

We danced around this for so long. How many times did he try to kill me? How many times did he offer partnership?

(Sark)

She shudders under me, and soon I am tumbling after her over the edge. She half-collapses to the mattress, and drapes an arm across my chest, one leg over both of mine. A minute later she is sound asleep in my arms. Five minutes after that she is blithely drooling on my shoulder, a quirk I find somehow endearing. Five years ago we were sworn enemies. Now she trusts me, she sleeps in my presence, so deeply that she drools.

We started working together after Korea: I slipped a note to her before our disastrous parting. Luckily she lived long enough to respond. Three weeks passed before she called. I had a plan, a very simple plan.

The Alliance was based on a single goal: profit. Money makes the world go round, as they say. It is a potent motivator. Each cell could function independently. Each person who knew the truth about the Alliance believed in this goal. The Covenant was also based on a single purpose: the Rambaldi quest. But unlike the Alliance, only the founders and highest ranking members of the Alliance actually cared about Rambaldi. Everyone else was in it for the money. My money, actually.

We destroyed the Covenant not by some dramatic simultaneous strike, like how the Alliance fell, but by simple attrition. We killed off the leaders one by one until the monster simply fell apart. It took five years and 107 assassinations to reach this stage: to recover my inheritance and leave the organization in sufficient chaos for us to disappear, while the remaining cells shrivel from lack of funds.

Syd mumbles something incoherent and repositions her leg. My thoughts return to the present, to the busy day we face tomorrow. I let my myself fall asleep.


	2. First Meet

Chapter 2: First Meet

(Sydney)

I didn't consult my father. I knew what he would have said: Sark's loyalties have proven to be flexible in the past. He could be sincere, but more likely he is trying to use you to his own ends.

"Agent Bristow. What a pleasant surprise."

I could practically see his smirk over the phone line. I braced a hand against the plexiglass phonebooth to calm myself.

"You have a proposal for me."

"How would you like to destroy the Covenant?"

"What exactly did you have in mind?"

"Now that I would like to discuss with you in person. Ten o'clock Thursday evening, el Cantábrico, a charming beachfront restaurant in Cadiz."

The line went dead. I slammed my fist against the plexiglass, but dutifully wrote down the name of the restaurant.

Only with the meeting set up and the tickets purchased did I talk to Dad. His response was predictable.

"I can't believe you're even thinking about this! Sark may be discontented with the Covenant, but he is still the enemy. He has tried to kill you on numerous occasions. He is not to be trusted."

"What if he can help us destroy them? What if he is telling the truth? He is the only lead we have right now. If there is even the slightest chance he is sincere, don't we have to explore it?"

"You aren't asking for my opinion at all. You've already decided," he sounded more disappointed than angry. I crossed my arms and nodded.

"The CIA won't approve the meeting. You'll need more to bring them on board."

"That's why I came to you first, Dad."

"When do we leave?"

(Sark)

Summer in Cadiz is hot and dry, with desert winds blowing in from north Africa and the town swollen by sun-thirsty tourists, who stroll the beach and the bars well into the night. Winter is more wet than cold. Cadiz shrinks, and sleeps. The lobby of the Hotel Playa Victoria was empty when I checked in. The restaurant was similarly quiet as I waited for Agent Bristow to arrive.

She walked in as I was finishing my meal, wearing a conservation black sheath dress and pearls. She paused at the entrance to scan the large room. Long strides took her to my private corner both. I readied the darts.

"You ate without me?" she asked as she slid into the seat across from me.

"I never promised dinner. Now if you'll be so kind as to hand over your weapon and any listening devices on your person."

"I came alone. No one is listening," she bravely lied.

"I see two ways to do this, Agent Bristow. You can hand them over voluntarily, or," I pushed the muzzle of the gun against her thigh, "I can sedate you and find them myself."

She scowled, but reached behind her neck to unfasten the strand of pearls and placed them on the table, then removed the tiny earpiece, which I crushed with the base of my water glass. Her gun came next, from a holster strapped to her thigh. But that wasn't all she had. I could see it in her eyes.

"Everything, Agent Bristow, or I will shoot you."

After a moment's hesitation she retrieved a small knife from the sole of her shoe.

"Satisfied?"

I was not about to be baited by her.

"Let's talk somewhere more private."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"And I'm not sitting here for you partner to come and shoot me."

Her eyes narrowed, calculating. Risks, benefits, expected value.

"Where did you have in mind?"

"How about a stroll along the beach?"

"Why, Sark, I didn't know you were such a romantic."

(Sydney)

It was cool out, and I hadn't brought a jacket. Of course, Sark didn't offer me his, nor would I have accepted it. I listened attentively as he outlined his plan. He would provide names of key players, and any intelligence he could. We would work together to plan and execute hits. Simple. Too simple, really. But with Sark, it just might work. He knew the key players, he was high enough within the Covenant to have access to the necessary information.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"They stole from me. Eight hundred million dollars."

"You could still be playing me. I need something more."

He handed me a business size white envelope, blank, thin.

"The Covenant has a double agent within the CIA."

I opened the envelope, and found a small photo of Lauren staring back at me. I couldn't stop a shocked gasp.

"All the proof you need is in there."

"If this is true—"

"It's true."

"I'll need time to verify."

"Of course."

"If this is true, I will work with you."

"I look forward to hearing from you. Use the same number as last time."

Sark headed back to the Cantábrico. I made for the hostel in the older part of town where we were staying. My heart was racing. If true, the implications were astounding. She must have been the leak in Korea.

And Vaughn. Vaughn was married to a double agent who had practically had the two of us killed.


	3. Into Canada

Leaving the Shadows

Chapter 2: Into Canada

(Sydney)

I wake to find only empty space where he had been. The heady scent of brewing coffee drifts in from our kitchen. I laugh inwardly. Our kitchen consists of a hot plate and two small cooking pots, powered by a small gasoline generator. Our water comes from several 20-gallon plastic drums. We are hiding in an abandoned building in downtown Detroit, near Dragoon Street, the Ambassador Bridge a scant mile or two away. It's not hard to steal electricity from the city, or water. But that might draw attention to our presence.

"Good morning, Syd."

Sark walks into the room carrying coffee in one hand and a box of cereal in the other.

"It's not even light yet."

"It's best to do this early," he insists, "before the bridge gets too backed up."

"But not too early," I practically recite, "because that wouldn't fit with our cover."

"Precisamente, Alma Medina."

"¡Déjame en paz, que quiero dormir!"

But I take the coffee and step out onto the cold floor. Time to get ready: black wig, dark foundation and bronzer, darkened eyebrows, and I look just like I do in my beautifully forged Spanish passport.Sark's transformation is more dramatic: blond hair dyed brown, brown eyes, brown moustache, and deep crow's feet courtesy of actor's sculpting putty.

(Sark)

The border guard checks the license plates, and sure enough finds the car registered to a rental agency in the Detroit airport.

"How long do you plan to stay in Canada?"

"Five days. We're just going to Toronto for a quick visit," I reply, affecting a slight castellano accent.

"My sister is a freshman at the university," Sydney chimes in, smiling.

"Where will you be staying?"

"Alma, ¿dónde es la reservación?"

"It's right here in the seat pocket. Pos, lo puse en…"

She rummages through her purse next and I give the guard an apologetic smile.

"Ah…aquí es." Sydney hands it to me.

"We have a suite at the Toronto Hilton, on 145 Richmond—"

"Fine. That's fine, Mr. and Mrs. Medina. Have a nice trip."

The gate lifts and I pull slowly through. We follow the surface roads for five miles through Windsor and then merge onto route 401. In eight hours we'll be in Ottawa.

(Sydney)

The safe house in Ottawa is my belongs to my father. There is a note on the kitchen table:_ Sydney, everything you asked for is here. Be careful. If you need anything at all contact me. Love, Dad. _

But I can't call him. He already knows too much. For his own safety, I will not talk to him directly until this is all over. I practically fall into the chair, the note still in my hand. Sark kneels on the linoleum floor beside me, a hand on my thigh.

"It has to be this way, Syd."

His eyes are so blue, like glacier ice. I want to cry. I want to wrap my arms around him and sob.

"I know."

He rubs my shoulders, kneading the tense muscles until I began to soften, until my head practically lolls back against him. Sometimes there is still a lot of silence between us.

(Sark)

Five days from now, United States border records will show Mr. and Mrs. Medina re-entered the country via the Windsor tunnel, and flew back to Madrid two days later. Meanwhile, Sydney Bristow will be inserted into surveillance footage at the Tokyo International Airport. And I will rent a car in Vienna and check into a small hotel near the center of town, just a few blocks from the Ringstrausse.

Several months of false leads are planned: plane tickets, customs reports, rental cars, hotel reservation. Mr. Bristow was instrumental in setting it up. While the remnants of the Covenant bicker and squabble and follow our trail of breadcrumbs, we will be hidden away on a small island off the coast of Belize.

The living room is filled with boxes of cold weather gear, for Nunavut. We stuff most of it in the car and sink it in the river. The rest, along with stubs for a charter flight from Ottawa north to Iqlaluit, we leave in the safehouse. Yet another diversion.

When I first suggested Nunavut as our hideout, Sydney shot the idea down. She said she would not sleep in a body bag in a place with no sunlight until she was good and dead. She protested with such vehemency that I didn't even try to argue the advantages of the far north: inaccesibility, total lack of organized criminal activity.

(Sydney)

He is quiet and brooding, with a glass of red wine in one hand. On our way back from the river we stopped at a liquor store. Just your typical couple, hand in hand, planning to drink away an evening and make love all night. I love these moments where I can feel almost normal, unless I think to far back or too far ahead. Aside from the fact that we just crossed a border in disguise and sank a car to cover our tracks, and aside from the fact that we fly out tomorrow morning, this vignette could be seen in a million homes all over the world. A man drinks a glass of wine, his other arm around the woman he loves, curled against his side with her feet up on the couch.

He is warm and solid. I take a swig from my own glass. Little by little the alcohol warms me, clouds my head just slightly, and makes my limbs tingle where our bodies contact.

"I like you better as a blond, you know," I say to break the silence, and because the wine has made me giddy and a bit to honest.

"Oh really?"

He raises an eyebrow at me, amused I guess by my inebriation. I can't stop myself from running a hand through his hair.

"Promise me you'll bleach it?"

He laughs outright this time.

"What's in it for me?"

He sets down his wine, and turns towards me. I lean forward to kiss him. He tastes like red wine and I move to straddle his lap.

"Sydney, we have to get up early tomorrow. You should sleep."

"I don't care."

But he braces his hands on my hips, and gently pushed me back.

"Soon we'll have all the time in world for this, Sydney," he whispers in my ear. And it is the most romantic thing I have ever heard him say. Usually he is all business, all aliases and flight schedules. "In Belize we can sit on the beach all day and drink rum, swim in the ocean and make love outside under the palms."

"I can't wait," I say, and nuzzle against his neck.

He gets up and drags me to bed, spooning me against his chest. I drift off quickly, but before I am completely gone he whispers "neither can I" and kisses my cheek.


	4. After the Betrayal

Chapter 4: After the Betrayal 

A/N: This deals with the aftermath of the Lauren double agent news. Some S/V, then some major arguments. If anyone is getting confused, every other chapter is basically going to be a flashback until I work up to where I started the story.

(Sydney)

I watched on the monitor in the rotunda: Lauren was being held in the same cell my mother had occupied. Vaughn paced back and forth along the glass barrier, looking hurt and confused. The sound had been turned off, but I didn't bother turning it back on. I could surmise the gist of the conversation.

It hadn't taken long to validate Sark's intel. It was Lauren who shot Sark's father, and Lauren who betrayed our mission in Korea. She had maintained her innocence, and she played the part well. All doe eyes and meek voice, with a dose of patriotism when it played to her cause. But she failed the fMRI polygraph.

I heard footfalls approaching, heavy and even. My father, I guessed. He stopped next to me, and watched the screen with me.

"Dad…"

I wondered if he saw some of himself in Vaughn. It was the same betrayal he suffered when Laura Bristow, loving and devoted wife, turned out to be Irina Derevko, Russian spy.

"Sydney, I just wanted to let you know we've found hard evidence condemning Lauren Reed. Surveillance footage shows her accessing the building across the street from the hospital where Lazarey was killed, toting what appears to be a rifle case."

"Surveillance? Dad, how could she be so sloppy?"

"It was actually from a camera in a bank across the street, not in the building itself. I assume Lazarey's assassination was a rush job. The Covenant could not have known his location far in advance."

"Why didn't we catch this earlier?"

"Lauren headed the team that investigated his murder."

"Oh."

"Sydney, are you free for dinner tomorrow tonight? There are some things I'd like to discuss." Sark, of course.

"Yes."

"Good. I'll pick you up at seven."

He briefly put a hand on my shoulder, then walked away. I stared at the screen for a while longer, trying to sift through my emotions.

(Sark)

I waited two rings before picking up the phone.

"Agent Bristow. As always, it's a pleasure to hear from you."

"Can it, Sark. This is just business."

"And what is wrong with mixing business with pleasure?" I tried to use my sultriest bedroom voice. I loved to get under her skin.

"I won't even deign to answer that."

"Was there a reason for this call? Not that I don't enjoy our witty banter, but I am a busy man." She was going to agree to work with me. But of course she couldn't come right out and say. She had that famous Bristow stubbornness and pride.

"We verified the information on Lauren Reed."

"Ahh…and how is Agent Reed enjoying the CIA's wonderful hospitality?"

"How far back did it go? Was she assigned to seduce Vaughn? Did she know what they did to me this whole time?" She was getting angry: her voice was loud but tight.

"Now who's mixing business with pleasure?"

She emitted a short, bitter laugh, and replied, "Destroying the Covenant is personal for both of us."

"Are you agreeing to work with me?"

"Yes." I could imagine that word spat forth from a clenched jaw.

"Sydney Bristow, working for the enemy."

"Let's get something straight, Sark. You may be providing most of the intel for these operation, but I am not working for you. You are not my boss. If I believe you are hiding things from me or using me to further some greater scheme, I will not hesitate to put a bullet in your brain."

"I would expect no less from you. But, really, what grander plot could I possibly come up with?"

"I don't know. But if there is one, we will find out."

"We? Surely you didn't tell the CIA about our collaboration."

"My father knows the truth. To the CIA you'll be just another of his informants."

"Fine. I don't have anything quite yet, but when I do I'll contact you."

"I'll give you my cell phone—"

"I already have it. Until next time, Sydney."

I hung up the phone before she could get in the last word. If nothing else, this venture would be very interesting. I would be slowly killing off my superiors in the organization, while at the same time desperately struggling to maintain their trust in me, and juggling the urchin that is Sydney Bristow. She had never shown me anything but contempt and distrust, and I hadn't done much to dissuade her from that view. But under our sarcasm and attempts at killing each other, I had to admit I admired her, and I had the feeling she admired me as well, as a worthy adversary.

(Sydney)

"I already have it. Until next time, Sydney."

And then he hung up on me. I desperately wanted to wipe that smug smirk off his face. Me work for him? For him? He had another thing coming if he expected me to follow orders without asking any questions and always be at his beck and call. Fighting him hadn't killed me, but working with him just might. If the Covenant didn't kill me first…

I banished the thought from my head as best as I could. This could work, I tried to remind myself. The information he had access to, his skill as an operative, his convincing façade of loyalty…it would be so easy to continue his role as a valued operative while killing off his superiors one by one. That is, assuming he was being honest with me…Another dangerous line of thought. But for once I wanted to believe him.

My phone rang, the landline, and I ran to the kitchen counter to pick it up.

"Sydney…"

"Vaughn. You sound awful."

"I'm just having a really rough time."

"Of course. Anyone would."

"Maybe. How could I have fallen for it, Syd?"

"It's not your fault. You can't blame yourself. She had all of us fooled."

"But of anyone, I should have seen it. I lived with her for a year."

"No, Vaughn. Of anyone, you had the biggest reason not to see it. You were in love." It hurt me to say it, to comfort him with that. "Of course you wouldn't expect the woman you love to betray you like that." And I thought of my mother, of how convincing she was, to me and to my father. And how much it hurt to find out so much of that life had been a lie. But not her love. And I million questions burst into the open: did Lauren love Vaughn? I remembered the Caplans. She genuinely loved him, though she was assigned to him just like my mother was assigned to Dad, just like Lauren was probably assigned to Vaughn.

"I was in love with a woman who didn't exist."

There was a hard edge to his voice I had never heard before. He may have seen a lot in the CIA, suffered the loss of his father's death, but this was the first betrayal that hit so close to home.

"Let's do something together. See a movie, get smashed. How 'bout it?"

"Just not at my place. I don't want to go back to that."

"Come on over. You know where I am."

"Okay. I'll see you in a bit."

"Bye."

He showed up at my door an hour later with a bottle of tequila and a bottle of vodka. When he set the tequila down on the counter, and took the vodka, which was already down by a few ounces, with him to my couch. He collapsed and twisted off the cap, took a shot, and reached forward to slam it on the coffee table.

"I hope you didn't drive." No response. "Do you want a glass? Or some orange juice to mix?"

"No. This is fine."

I sat down next to him, put a hand on his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Vaughn."

He blinked and turned away from me. I just rubbed his shoulder, hoping it was enough. I never wanted this to happen to him. I felt betrayed when I came back and discovered he had moved on, but deep inside I knew it wasn't fair to blame him. I was dead. He spread my ashes on the beach himself. After a few seconds, he leaned forward to grab the bottle. Before he could take a slug I reached my hand out for it, took off the cap and grimaced as its numbing fire moved down my throat. He took the bottle from me and took another shot.

We drank in silence, passing the vodka back and forth until maybe a third of the bottle was gone. Vaughn had more than me. I knew alcohol wasn't the best way for him to deal, but in the short term it would feel pretty damn good. Better than whatever was really inside, at any rate.

"Sydney, I never stopped loving you. I still love you and I meant what I said in Korea. Nothing will ever keep us apart, we will always find our way back here." His hands were in my hair, his lips mere inches from mine, and when he finally melded his lips to mine it was like coming home: his strong hands on my back, his soft lips and broad chest. With an effort I broke off contact, pushed him back to speak to him.

"What if Lauren really loved you? What if you became more to her than a mark?"

"That doesn't matter. We have another chance, Syd. It can be how it was supposed to be." He leaned towards me again, took my face in his hands, his deliciously calloused yet oh so gentle hands.

"You can leave behind in a day what took a year to build? You married her, Vaughn. How long after you found out I was dead?"

"That doesn't matter. We can be together now."

I turned my face into his hand, wishing I could believe him, wishing we could pick up where we left off. But everything was different now.

"It does matter. Not long after I died you were with her. And now, the very day you find out the truth about her, you come back here to me. I'm convenient for you."

"I love you, Syd." He placed a feather light kiss on my forehead. "I wish I could make you see that I love you."

"I love you too, Vaughn. But it doesn't matter. That's not the issue. We can't do this again. I won't do this again, especially not right now."

I leaned into him, a hand around his shoulder. When I said it, it became so real. He rested his chin on my head, but the contact was different. Comfort. Friendship. He sighed. We stayed like that for maybe half an hour before he broke the silence.

"Syd, I wish…Syd, oh, god, Syd, I…I think I'm going to be sick…"

He ran to my bathroom and spent the next half hour worshipping the great porcelain god. I sat with him and gave him water and mouthwash when he was done. He stayed kneeling on the floor, possibly to unsteady to stand up quite yet.

"I hope I haven't make a fool of myself."

"Just a little," I couldn't help but laugh a bit.

"I'm sorry for anything—"

"No," I reached a hand towards his shoulder, "you have nothing to apologize for."

"So…we're fine? Friends still? No more awkwardness?"

"Of course we're friends. Now let's get Weiss over and have some pizza before you start drinking again."

"I will not be drinking anymore tonight."

This time I laughed outright. Weiss, pepperoni pizza and beer, people actually over at my apartment, sitting on my brand new furniture. It felt good. It felt comfortable. We were friends again, in a way we hadn't been since I came back. Only when I thought of the huge secret I was keeping from them did the picture fade a little.


	5. Chicago

Chapter 5: Chicago

(Sydney)

When I came back from being 'dead' I had nothing. Every material possesion was gone, my boyfriend had moved on with his life, Francie was dead, and Will was in witness protection.

I had a clean slate. I could do whatever I wanted. Become someone else, become myself.

Bullshit.

I had more history than ever on my shoulders, a two-year gap in my memory, and probably a price on my head, because I'm sure the Covenant have loved to get their hands on me again. Then they could either kill me, or actually turn me into Julia Thorne. I wonder which would be more painful? I told Kendall not to tell me about the conditioning. I asked Kendall to spare me the pain.

But pain I can deal with. Pain is real, visceral. Pain reminds you that you are alive.

Instead I have nothing, just this void. I can only imagine what they did to me.

That is why my desire for vengeance went so deep. That I why I was willing to work with my sworn enemy, deceive the CIA, and kill as many people as needed. The Covenant inflicted some unthinkable pain on me, so terrible that I was willing to forget, that I wanted to forget.

A long and twisted road led me to where I am today, sitting next to Sark, with half of his fortune under my name, on a quest to disappear. Sark, who however miserable and complicated his life has been, seems always to be holding the reins.

(Sark)

She's thinking again: her head resting against my shoulder, staring vacantly out the plane's tiny window. Bright sun filters in and sets her hair aflame with red and gold streaks.

"Enjoying the view?"

"I wish we could hurry up and get there," she replied, still resting against me.

"Savor it."

Savor everything. Life is too short, especially for people like us, not to live fully. She sighs, and repositions herself along my right side. Minutes later she sits up and tries to rest an elbow along the woefully inadequate windowsill.

"I don't like this seat."

"You can have mine," I offer.

"Don't be sarcastic."

"I wasn't being sarcastic."

"It's the same damn seat!" she hisses.

"Sydney," I try for calming.

"What? What the hell do you expect from me?"

"You're making a scene."

"You're not helping!"

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry."

"That's the problem. You never do anything. You never get mad. You have it all under control, it's all stuffed away behind that mask," she sneers. At least she's keeping our argument to a whisper now. If you can label it an argument. It seems rather one-sided.

"This is neither the time nor the place to lose my temper. But I promise you, once we reach the hotel you can try to make me angry uninhibited the hundred on people aboard this plane."

She opens her mouth to speak, but apparently decides against it. Her arms are crossed, her body angled away from me towards the window. I hope she finds it interesting. It will be another hour until we arrive in Chicago.

(Sydney)

As soon as we make through the door to our barely adequate hotel room I turn on him.

"You are so fucking calm! I'm not a mission, I'm not a mark. So just wipe that smirk off your face and talk to me for once?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Do you ever feel anything? I mean really feel?"

"I feel things all the time. I just don't always show it."

"You treat me like a child. You lead me by the hand. You can't drop the façade for two seconds to talk me about anything that matter."

(Sark)

"You want me to show you how I feel?" Now I'm the one speaking through clenched teeth. "You want me to show you my temper?"

I step towards her and she takes a single step back.

"Is this better? Have you forgotten that we're running, Sydney? That we're fleeing for our lives? You act like this is a pleasure cruise. You treat this like a vacation."

"I'm fleeing with you. I'm not fleeing with the operative, or the strategical mastermind, the assassin," she almost pleads, her voice small.

"Sydney, I am those things."

(Sydney)

His voice is gentler, but laced with regret. He takes my hands in his, kneels when I sit down on the bed. And I am suddenly ashamed for how I behaved. I spent months looking for my history, and months more avenging its loss, and I ask him to leave behind everything he was. For me.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

He lets go of my hands, stands, and paces the small room. A vast fortune between us, and we're staying in a dump like this. He stops in front of the dresser and starts to speak again.

"Sydney, we don't have to do this together. We can split up. Maybe it would be best if we travelled separately for awhile. It would reduce the chances of either of us being found."

I blink back tears. I am slowly ruining the best thing that has happened to me since waking up in Hong Kong. His voice is steady and carries no sign of his earlier outburst. I wonder if he's serious. I can't read his eyes.

"I'd rather keep going with you."

"If that's what you want."

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

(Sark)

She nods, but is silent. Her jaw clenches and a crease appears between her eyebrows.

"It's okay if you need some time alone."

I'm giving her every chance to escape. I have been dreading this moment since our first night together, but it is not entirely unexpected. I'm surprised she's stayed this long. I love every moment with her: the feel of her body against mine, the trust she places in me, waking up at her side, travelling with her towards our future. But I always suspected it was a brief dream brought about by extraordinary circumstances, that would end when our interests no longer coincided. I knew that the proverbial honeymoon would end when the Covenant fell.

"I just need a nap. I'm too strung out right now."

She hadn't slept through the night in weeks.

"I'll give you some privacy."

Her voice stopped me halfway out the door.

"Stay here. Please."

I crawled on the bed beside her: her arm flung over my chest and her breath against my shoulder.

The guillotine has yet to fall.


	6. Newlyweds

Chapter 6: Newlyweds

(Sydney)

It was our eleventh target: a wealthy Italian man and high ranking Covenant official who spent his weekends in Rome with his mistress. We checked in as newlyweds on our honeymoon. The presidential suite. Chosen not for its marble floors and luxurious jacuzzi but because it is right net door to Alberti Ferucci's equally opulent rooms. We lounged on the beach, gazed into each other's eyes over and dinner and wine. And grappa. Every time he smiled at me I wanted to gag.

Sark wrapped an arm around my waist as we sauntered back to the room. His hand was like fire on the skin of my back, his fingers gentle. I wished the silk dress had more of a back. I wished the alcohol hadn't made me a little too warm and way too forgiving.

Ever the gentleman, he opened the heavy wood door and waved me in ahead of him. He disappeared into the bedroom and came back a few moments later carrying a black box, long and thin.

"This is for you."

I opened it. Inside was a length of black silk.

Sark approached like a stalking tiger. Suddenly my heart was racing. He pushed back my hair from my neck and ran a finger along my chin. I shivered from the heat.

"Ferucci has cameras installed all over the room."

His breath on my skin made me nervous, and oddly excited.

"To maintain our cover as newlyweds…." His hand dipped down to my collarbone. "…we'll need to put on a bit of a show for him."

I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill him for his convenient omission. But I did nothing. He moved behind me again and tied the silk over my eyes. Blind.

"So you can pretend I'm someone else, anyone else, just don't cry out the wrong name."

I was angry and scared but not unwilling. And the blindfold—a twisted act of kindness from my greatest enemy and most valued ally—the blindfold set me free.

(Sark)

She trembled at my touch. When I moved behind her to tie on the blindfold I thought for a moment she would simply bolt. But she stayed. I fastened the silk over her eyes and tied it securely behind her head.

"So you can pretend I'm someone else—" Some dead lover from your lurid past. "Anyone else—just don't cry out the wrong name."

"I hate you, Steven."

Her voice was flat. I detected no malice even as she spoke my alias. But her breath had quickened. When I slipped the silk straps over her shoulders and kissed a trail down her torso she moaned and ran her fingers through my hair.

(Sydney)

I hate you. I hate that you can do this to me. I love how you make me feel. I love you. And everything is a thick stew bubbling inside me. Your touch is like honey; your voice is like wine.

When did I stop hating you?

When did you start protecting me?

I don't know. Those feelings are an ocean that blends seamlessly into the sky, or melting ice, as blue as your eyes.

Suddenly your little ruse doesn't matter. The circumstances, the show. It is just you and me and touch and tase.

I pulled him up and sought out his lips, worked desperately at the ivory buttons of his linen shirt. And then it was smooth skin and soft sighs. A cool breeze through the curtains. His hands all over me, searching, asking, giving.

(Sark)

I am in love with her strength and her weakness. Her hard angles and soft curves. I am in love with a contradiction, and just as blind as she is.

Under that dress her skin is smoother thank the finest silk. I kiss down her throat, down between her breasts, and when I reach her stomach she moans. Softly, but distinctly. It is the sexiest thing I've ever heard.

This was not supposed to happen.

Her fingers tangle in my hair.

With that simple touch I am done. After that it is all pleasure and self-reproach. Skin and muscle. Whimpers and moans and gasps. Her small hands on my waist, my arms, and her nails as she clutches my back, pulls me further into her.

Finally sated, she stretches out alongside me, head resting on my arm. I wonder who she imagined me to be. Danny? Vaughn? But she takes off the blindfold and looks at me, really looks at me. And I wonder if just maybe she imagined I was myself.

(Sydney)

I search his eyes, but don't find any answers. I settle in against his chest, willing him to break the silence. He molds his body to mine, but doesn't say a word. Three hours til go time.

(Sark)

I shot Ferucci. I acquired the disc with his contacts' information. But when I run towards the exit she closed the door and aimed the gun at my forehead.

"Sit down. Let's have a chat."

I obey. Because I have never heard her voice sound so cold.

"What are you doing?"

"Put your hands on the desk where I can see them."

"The guards will come soon."

Her aim doesn't waver, even as she crosses the room and sits beside me. It doesn't waver until she cocks the gun and presses it against my left temple. I don't know what she's doing and it scares me. Sydney has always been emotionally flammable, but predictable.

"You will never hide another detail of a mission from me, understood?"

Her words are slow and measured. Before I can respond she hits me hard across my face with the metal gun. I feel my skin split open slightly over my cheek bone. Tomorrow it will be bruised and swollen. But I don't bring a hand up to probe the wound. I don't make a sound. And I don't wince when she cocks the gun and pushes the barrel against my temple. She stares at me and I stare back.

A minute later she offers me her hand and pulls me a few steps towards the exit.


	7. The First Sign of Trouble

Chapter 7: The First Sign of Trouble

(Sydney)

Another day, another plane. Coach isn't so bad with Sark at my side but still my legs are cramped and my head spins with the numbing inactivity. Who knew being on the run would be so sedentary. Sark bought me a sleep mask for travelling. I don't wear it. It reminds me of other things.

We were seated in the back, so we are the last ones off the plane. I step out first, grab my backpack from the overhead bin and slip it on my shoulders as I walk down the narrow aisle. I can't wait to reach real air.

"Hello, Julia."

A voice, connected to a man standing at the exit, holding a gun aimed at my chest. I stop, unsure what to do.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else," I respond with an English accent. Sark was several feet behind me. He isn't visible yet to this man that I don't recognize.

"Perhaps you're more comfortable with a different name, Ms. Bristow."

I hear the pilots in the cockpit, oblivious to our exchange. Where in hell are the flight attendants? I am unarmed, and I don't dare look back to Sark.

"What do you want?"

"I think you should come with me."

"Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged," his eyes narrow as he cocks the gun. I drop to the ground and aim a kick at his hand. He fires but hits the ceiling. Sark charges out of nowhere with a fire extinguisher, and beats him over the head with the metal base. There is a sickening thud and a sound like a dropped melon splitting open. The fire extinguisher is not dented, but the base is ringed in blood. I do not look at the man's head.

"We have to get out of here," Sark fairly yells, pocketing the man's gun, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the back of the plane. He expertly opens the door and engages the escape slide. We hit the ground running.

This is familiar: the burn in my lungs, the ache in my legs. I pull a water bottle from my backpack before I drop the bag behind. It's slowing me down. I push to a sprint to catch up to Sark as he heads down the row of planes.

(Sark)

I glance behind to make sure she's following. I see her, minus the backpack, and gaining. I slow my pace just slightly and in seconds she's at my side, breathing hard.

"There, up ahead," I pant, and gesture to the next plane. They are loading the cardboard meals for the next flight. We scamper up the scaffolding and knock out the workers, disengage the vehicale from the plane and head in. The two pilots are already inside.

"We can't hijack a flight!" she hisses at me.

"We don't have to. We'll have them take us exactly where they're scheduled to go. We'll just sit with them in the cockpit," I explain. It's not the best plan, but I prefer taking my chances here than inside the airport. There are bound to be more waiting for us.

"There are two of them. And we only have one gun."

"You take the gun. I think I can scare the other into submission."

We storm the plane, a scant five minutes before the flight attendants arrive. The cockpit door is closed securely. The pilots are suitably scared. And the plane is headed for Miami.

(Sydney)

We walk off with the rest of the passengers. Balls and luck: the only two reasons we're alive right now. I hit a payphone in downtown Miami.

"Dad," I whisper, as soon as he picks up.

"Sydney, are you alright? Where are you?"

"We were ambushed as we got off a plane in Houston. We don't know who did it. I need you're help."

"Could it have been a Covenant splinter?"

"Maybe. Sark didn't recognize the guy. We got on a plane to Miami, but we didn't exactly do it quietly. The authorities will be looking for us soon."

"You have to get out of the country."

"I know! But where do we go? We can't go back to the Miami airport. They'll arrest us."

"Sydney, go to the CIA office. They'll take you into custody but you'll be cleared if you tell the truth in debrief."

"And Sark?"

"Save yourself. Please, don't get yourself killed with that man."

"Dad, I won't leave him to save myself. Please, just give us another option."

He sighed, and there was a long pause before he spoke again.

"Go to the Peacock Bar and ask the bartender for a dirty martini and a meeting with Big Jim. Tell him Jack sent you. He did a favor for me once. He can get you passage to Cuba. From there enough money will get you anywhere you want."

"Thank you, Dad."

"Be careful, sweetheart."

I composed myself and turned to Sark.

"What are the chances that the Covenant heard that conversation?"

"Jack's cell phone…your only living relative. I don't know."

"Do we follow his instructions or do we head off in the opposite direction?"

"From Cuba we can go anywhere. But if they did hear that conversation, we'll be dead before we get there."

"What if we find a boat to take us North, to Bermuda. Money will get us almost as far there as in Cuba," I suggested. Sark chewed on his bottom lip, considering.

"Sounds good. Or a charter flight. I'm sure we can find an unscrupulous pilot in one of the smaller airports, maybe with a seaplane so we don't even have to arrange for runway time at an airport on the island."

"Right. Seaplane it is, then."

(Sark)

This is not what I wanted for us. We find a fleabag motel in a seedy area of town, where they charge by the hour and don't ask for names. I bolt the door and jam a chair under the knob. Sydney sits heavily on the sagging mattress. I hear a mouse scamper across the room but don't see it.

I join her on the bed, and my watch to wake us in five hours. I have a contact North of the city, who says he will arrange for us to fly out tonight after midnight. We just have to lay low for a few more hours.

Sydney's shoulders shake as if sobbing. But when I lift her face towards mine her eyes are draw and a passable smile is plastered on her face.

"We'll be okay," I whisper into her ear. She nods and rests her head against my shoulder, her arms snaking about my waist.

I don't mind this life for myself. But this is not for Sydney. Her pain twists inside my gut. I feel largely responsible for our situation. But everything we did was the correct course of action at the time. We have done everything right. Sometimes your best just isn't enough.

But the game isn't over yet.


	8. Vodka and Violence

Chapter 8: Vodka and Violence

(Sydney)

"Vagt is on his way."

"Copy that."

His words were clipped. Two weeks ago he made love to me. I retaliated with a blunt metal object. We hadn't spoken of it since. But if possible, he seemed even more coldly professional towards me than ever before.

I told my father the Ferucci mission had gone off without a hitch.

I tugged the hem of the red dress down, only to realize that doing so lowered the neckline too far for my comfort. What choices: I could show too much cleavage or too much leg. Leaning back slightly I managed to recross my legs without flashing anyone. The hotel bar was doing a brisk business, but was not too crowded. The rest of the patrons were respectable couples and older businessmen, with just a few younger singles trawling for company. But they weren't showing nearly as much skin as I was. And no one else was quite so blond as Vagt apparently preferred.

"I see him," I whispered, covering by lifting my glass as if to take a sip.

He was an imposing man: dark hair, strong features, and a thick build. Vagt sat a few stools down, and ordered a drink. I glanced over, caught his gaze and smiled, halfway between demure and interested. He raised his glass, I raised my own, and we drank at the same time. I sipped; he downed an entire shot of his poison of the evening. Turning back to my drink, I swirled the ice in the bottom of the glass and took another small sip. Vagt continued to glance my way periodically. He was interested. Finally he stood up from his stool and walked to stand next to mine, an elbow in the bar as if he owned the place.

"As we are both here alone, perhaps you would care to join me."

It was only barely question. I frowned a moment, then smiled up at him. He sat down on the stool next to mine. He ordered two more shots of vodka. We downed them in a gulp. Firewater. But I had to drink with him. My role was to come across as equal parts tramp and socialite, a worthy conquest.

"What are we drinking to?" I purred.

"I just secured a rather important client for my firm," he lied glibly.

"And you're here alone? Not celebrating with the rest of your firm?"

"I do not drink with my employees. I prefer the company of a beautiful woman like yourself. What are you drinking to?"

"To freedom. And to forget."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"I don't think it's any of your business, anyway."

"I told you my story," he put a hand on my leg above my knee, "It would only be fair if you shared yours as well."

Now I had him. A sob story about an engagement broken off, jetting off to spend a few days shopping in Moscow. Three vokdas later he paid the tab for both of us and led me to his room.

(Sark)

It infuriated me to hear her flirtation with Vagt and to know by her breathing and the conversation when he touched her. Not because I felt possessive of her, but because I knew how much she hated whoring herself out for the sake of the mission. Perhaps I did feel a bit possessive, as ridiculous as that was. I was sure she enjoyed the show we put on for Ferucci as much as I had. But her reaction later that night made it clear it would never happen again. My hand involuntarily brushed over my cheek where she had hit me.

The sound of a door opening, Sydney's playful laughter, the sound of a door closing, and of a body being pushed roughly against a wall.

"Wait, wait—" a breathless voice, strained. It was Sydney. Then a zipper being pulled down, fabric tearing.

"I want you now," that voice was Vagt, and again came the sound of flesh contacting plaster.

"Sydney, what's happening?" I tried her over the comm.

"Let me go!" Sydney again, screaming. A brief scuffle, the grunt of someone being kicked in the stomach.

"Who do you work for?"

Vagt's voice. He found the knife.

"I don't work for anyone, you ugly bastard."

I didn't wait for his response. I sprinted up four flights of stairs, knocked out the guard standing in front of the entrance to the suite, and shot the door open. Sydney was on her knees on the ground, clutching her abdomen, forehead on the floor, back exposed down to her waist by the unzipped dress, on strap ripped off. Vagt had a gun at the back of her head, which he swung up to me as I crashed in.

"I take it you're with her."

I merely nodded. We were at an empasse, guns held steady aimed at each other.

"I suggest you let her go."

Vagt laughed, more like a bark. His aim never wavered.

"Or what? It appears I have the only bargaining chip. Something tells me you would be upset to watch her die. I would be sad to lose such an alluring toy."

"If you kill her, I will kill you."

He laughed at that, more of a bark than anything else.

"So she does hold some value to you." He yanked Sydney up by her arm and stood her in front of him, gun trained on her head now instead of mine.

"Shoot him, Sark."

"Be quiet!" Vagt hissed into her ear. "And you, put down your gun on the table or I will shoot her."

I moved to comply, placed the gun on the table. He moved to retrieve it. And as I guessed his grip on Sydney loosened. I ran towards him as she twisted down out of his grip, and bowled him over. We fought on the floor, rolling over and over, exchanging blows, but I hung on to him. I needed to keep him away from the gun more than anything else.

A shot reverberated through the room. It grazed my arm but went directly through Vagt's shoulder. Weakened from the wound and the pain, his arm drooped to his side, and I sprung away from him. Sydney stood with the gun, still pointed at him. He tried to stand, bleeding down his shirt. She took a step forward and shot him again. This time he slumped to the floor dead.

Then she dropped the gun and ran towards the bathroom.

(Sydney)

I still felt his hands all over me, calloused and clammy, over my dress, on my skin, the weight of his body as he slammed me into the wall, and the adrenaline that had sustained me dropped into the pit of my stomach like a lead weight and left me shaking and empty. I huddled over the toilet bowl and heaved until nothing was left.

Then I became aware of Sark, holding back my hair, pulling me to my feet.

"We have to go. Now."

Urgency in his voice. He pulled the fur coat around my tattered dress and did up all the clasps, smoothed back my hair, and led me out of the room. He led us out the service exit, explaining that we were no longer safe there, that we needed to check into another hotel. The cab ride went by in silence. I was cold. When I looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, his profile cut in moonlight and shadow.

Soon we were in a new room, in a new hotel, with the door locked and bolted and Sark studiously avoiding me.

"He took me by surprise," I finally said, by way of explanation. I screwed up the mission. I screwed it all up. I took of the coat, threw off the shoes and stood there in that ridiculous dress. I caught a glance of myself in the mirror, pale and bruised. And the ripped dress hanging down, exposing most of my breast on the side where he ripped apart the strap.

"We'll have to leave in the morning."

"I don't have anything to wear."

"I'll pick up something for you in the morning," he took a step towards me, as if to say something more. Part of me longed for his touch, for something to erase the feel of Vagt's hands. But he stopped, put his hands in his pockets, and sat down on the couch. "I'm sure you're tired. You can have the bed."


	9. Bermuda

Chapter 9: Bermuda

(Sydney)

It's four in the morning, I haven't had a good long sleep in days, and the thought of eluding our enemies by going to Bermuda is the funniest thing I've ever heard. We are trying to disappear in the Bermuda triangle. I try to stifle the giggles, but my shoulders shake. Sark looks at me, puts a hand on my thigh, and seems confused to see my smile. I know my laughter is completely inappropriate. It's some bizarre reaction to stress and fatigue.

He says something, but I can't hear it over the roar of the seaplane's engines. We are trying to disappear in the Bermuda triangle. His head is cocked to the side, mouth drawn into a slight frown. Trying to figure me out, trying to figure out what's so damn funny.

We are so low I can see the white crests of breaking waves below us. I don't know how much Sark paid the pilot to fly so low. A strong downward draft could seriously screw up our nebulous plans. Let's just say we didn't plan on disappearing in a plane crash. We had something more glamorous in mind, involving nearly a billion dollars and a tropical sunset. I'm laughing again, but now there are tears streaming down my face as well, and I can't decide if they're from laughing so hard or from something else entirely. The best laid plans of mice and men…

(Sark)

She's bordering on hysterical. I've never seen her quite like this. Cold fury, hot rage, and a million shades of disdain are easier to understand. I wonder briefly if she's cracking up under the pressure. Three hours left in our six hour flight. Sydney stops: Stops laughing, stops crying, and falls suddenly asleep against the window, with the first rays of sun shining through her hair.

We land mid-morning just off the coast, on a mostly deserted stretch of island, and paddle to shore in an inflatable raft. Sydney slashes a hole in the rubber and deflates it, weights it down under water with a large rock.

"Where are we going?" she asks, one hand on her hip, one hand shading her eyes.

The whole world is our playground, or rather, our playing board. We can go anywhere. The feeling is liberating, for a moment. But wherever we go, they will follow.

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

She is silent, looking at me with another strange expression: mournful but smiling. In Utah sometimes it will rain but never reach the ground. It evaporates in the dry air. Her face is full of tears that don't quite fall and a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

"We need protection," she finaly speaks. "There are people who may still be willing to help us."

"Your mother."

A weak smile, half grimace, really.

"You don't really want to go to her."

"No," she sighs, "I don't. But they're gaining on us."

"First things first, let's get breakfast."

I reach for her hand, and she let's me hold it. We walk along the side of the road looking for all the world like a couple on vacation, except that we are carrying concealed weapons and an assortment of false passports and licenses. The sun is getting high, and the day is already too warm. Sweat beads on my forehead and rolls down my face, dampens my shirt against my skin.

"Julian?"

"Yes?"

She rarely uses my given name. She whispers it to me at night, like a priceless artifact that could be damaged by the light.

"My father wants me to go back to the CIA."

"You would be safe with them. Safer than with me."

"That's all you have to say about it?"

She has stopped, her brows furrowed with a crease between them.

"I won't tell you not to go. I have no claim on you, Sydney. You don't have to stay with me. You can go back to the States, maybe even back to the CIA, and live, find some fool to marry who will worship the ground you walk on. You still have a chance at a normal life, Sydney: three perfect children, a house, a safe job, coworkers who serve cake on your birthday. You won't have any of that with me. All we have is this burning passion, maybe love, and a price on our heads. Every second you stay with me is one more than I expected, and one closer to our deaths."

"You want me to go."

"I didn't say that. I merely said that that would be the prudent course of action."

"If only I was a prudent person…"

We resumed walking, her hands in her pockets now.

(Sydney)

I catch the manager in the parking garage, and withdraw half a million Euros from one of the smaller accounts without ever setting foot in the bank. I have grown incredibly blasé about toting around huge amounts of cash, several thousand in my wallet and Sark's, the rest concealed at my waist and his.

We stop for a drink at an open air café. The air is thick and humid and though cooler in the shade, it is also more stagnant than on the street. I order orange soda and get a glass of mineral water with a hint of fresh squeezed orange, barely sweet, pulp floating in the glass, and chilled. I take a gulp, and then hold the glass to my forehead.

Sark flips through a newspaper and drinks black coffee. He looks just as hot as I feel but will never admit it.

"How do we find her? My father is still in contact with her, but I can't exactly call him up and ask him."

"She's still in the game, I imagine, especially now that we've helped to destroy her biggest rival. There are several bases in Europe that may still be active. We can start there."

(Sark)

Another midnight plane ride took us to a private airfield in Austria. Sydney slept this time, but struggled and mumbled in fear against my shoulder. Perhaps I should have woken her. But I am tired of seeing dark hollows under her eyes from insomnia. As we walked down the steps Sydney shivered in the brisk air. The limousine was waiting to take us to Vienna, our starting point.

I guided her towards the car with my hand at the small of her back. She claims she only took a few lessons, but she responds perfectly to the gentle pressure, both on and off the dancefloor. I open the door for her to slide in. She puts one leg in and recoils as if burned.

"Sydney?"

She presses back against me. I open the door further to see inside, though I already know what I will find.

"Hello Sydney, Mr. Sark."

Irina's voice is smooth and haughty. She is impeccably dressed, with her hair twisted up in a demure chignon and brilliant diamond earrings that catch the thin morning light. A conservative but well-tailored suit hugs her lithe frame. Sydney's clenches her hands into fists, and I put a hand on her shoulder, pull her back to place myself between her and her mother.

"Irina," she acknowledges, a slight quiver in her voice, then asks: "How did you find us?"

"I taught your companion everything he knows," she responded, "and Julian has become incredibly predictable over last few weeks."

This time I cringe, at the use of my given name. Sydney's gaze doesn't waver. Mother and daughter are locked in some bizarre staring contest, some battle of wills that I can only begin to understand.

"Well, are you coming or not?"

I slide into the seat beside Irina. After a moment Sydney enters, and sits stiffly next to me. The engine purrs and we head east, into the rising sun. The day is young, full of promise. I sit between two women joined by blood and torn apart by lies: one in her prime, one still a rising star, so different and undeniably the same. For once in my life I have no idea how it will all play out.


	10. After Dinner Mint

A/N: Thanks to Cruzstar for reviews! I had considered dropping the story until I got your feedback.

Chapter 8: After Dinner Mint

(Sark)

"I don't see them."

"Wait a moment. They're turning the corner."

"Ah."

"He's the tall one, black hair, navy coat."

"I don't have a clear shot."

"You can take out all three of them."

"I know."

"They're getting closer," I warn her. "You have to take the shot before th—"

"I know. Shut up."

They get closer and closer to safety. Take them out, Sydney. At the last possible moment I hear two shots and see two bodies fall. I am already packing up the binoculars and food that sustained me in my miserable surveillance. Petrov is normally a very cautious man. But he was forced to change plans for an arms sale to a less protected building, giving us this chance. The death of his assistant in addition to Petrov was unplanned, but unimportant.

"They're down," I tell her as an afterthought, verifying what she saw through the scope. I hear the telltale signs of a rifle being broken down, the creaking of a door on rusty hinges.

"You're good at stating the obvious."

I allow a pause before saying anything. I am trying hard not to bite the bait today.

"I made reservations at the Masion du Robert, for eight o'clock. Would you care to join me?"

"Why? What do you want?"

"Nothing, except the pleasure of your company."

She laughed. I saw her ahead, carrying an elegant black leather briefcase which actually held the sniper's rifle, wearing a conservative black suit. I stayed a hundred feet behind and lagging.

"I don't believe you."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I told you the truth. You don't have to give me an answer. Dine with me if you wish. Otherwise, I'll see you soon enough."

"Yep. Until then."

With that she cut the connection, her indefinite reply hanging in the air. She turned east towards her hotel, and I continued north towards mine.

(Sydney)

"How was the mission?"

"It went off without a hitch. Petrov and his assistant are dead," I told my father. "What did you tell Kendall this time?"

"He thinks you're on an intelligence gathering mission in Libya. I don't know how long I can cover for you."

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does, Sydney. We can't maintain this façade forever. You should explain what you are attempting and secure the Agency's cooperation."

"You know as well as I do that they will never agree to work with Sark unless he's under lock and key. I need him where he is." I can't count how many times we've had this conversation. It tires me. I glanced at my watch: quarter to eight. "I will think about it. But I have to go now, Dad."

"Be careful. I love you, Sydney."

I hung up the phone. I completely packed my suitcase before deciding to postpone the flight. I pulled on a silk dress dyed halfway between blood and burgundy wine, strapped on black heels, and left the room: hair loose, no jewelry.

The maitre'd led me back to a corner table where Sark sat contemplating a glass of champagne. There was a second flute of the same champagne and a plate of four raw oysters on the table across from him.

"You're late. I took the liberty of ordering for you."

(Sark)

"You cocky bastard," she replied when the maitre'd had left. At least she was polite enough to insult me in private. I couldn't help but smile, which only infuriated her more. She sat rigidly upright, her hands in her lap, jaw tight and eyes narrowed.

"There's no need to be rude. I simply thought you might enjoy a relaxing evening after our long day."

"All tired out, Sark?" Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

"I am trying to be polite, but you are trying my patience." She smirked. I continued, "Is there anything I can do to convince you I have no ulterior motives? Not for inviting you to dinner and not in our partnership. Please, be candid with me."

"You could apologize for what you did in Rome."

"You were the one who pistol-whipped me. I hardly think I need to apologize."

"Not that. Before."

"And exactly what should I should I apologize for? I'm sorry you allowed yourself to be seduced? I'm sorry you enjoyed it so much you moaned my alias when you came?" I'm sorry I'm falling in love with you. I'm sorry I failed you in Moscow, so sorry that I couldn't keep you from Vagt. I wanted to excise this ridiculous chivalry I felt towards her. I'm not the knight in armor—she's certainly not the damsel in distress.

"Shut. Up."

Her eyes were smoldering, shoulders tense. I obeyed, and we ate in silence. When the waiter came back with the dessert menu, I recommended the chocolate mousse. She ordered the raspberry tart with crème fraiche.

(Sydney)

The last plates cleared, we were left with two glasses of black muscat dessert wine, already half empty. A few more minutes and it was just us, white tablecloth and a candle between us. I kept my legs tucked under the chair. Finally the bill arrived, and a small plate of dark chocolate mints. I reached me hand toward the mints, and Sark clamped his over mine, pinning it to the table.

"Let go."

I met his eyes. They were intensely blue.

"I am sorry for the charade in Rome. I am sorry I didn't tell you what the mission would entail. It was really the best way, and I was concerned you would object and insist on a more dangerous route to Ferucci."

"I would have said yes. Had you asked."

He turned my hand over, still keeping my wrist in his iron grip. His fingers traced over mine, picked up a mint and placed it in the center of my palm. Finally he closed my fingers over it and let my hand go. His eyes stayed on mine the whole time, and I had to keep reminding myself to breath.

"Sydney, I'm sorry," he whispered once more. I pulled my hand back to my side of the table and popped the mint in my mouth: decadent chocolate, clear mint. He bit his bottom lip just slightly. I stretched my legs out until my calves rested against his, feet intertwined.

"Apology accepted."

(Sark)

We sat separated by the middle seat in the cab. In silence. I studied her profile, cut in moonlight and blue shadows. She invited me back to her room, and I followed her into the hotel. We made it to her room without any physical contact: not a single brush of her shoulders against mine in the elevator. I sat at the desk in her room and watched her take off her coat. She came over and pushed mine off my shoulders. I watched her, studied her expression. Next her skilled hands on the buttons of my shirt. Her eyes never left mine.

"Stand up," she whispered, and I complied. She pushed the shirt off my shoulders and circled me, silently, tracing over my back, my shoulders. Pants came next, and boxers. She stepped back to look at me. In Rome she never got to see me. Finally she came closer, her arms on my shoulders, tipping her face up to mine. We kissed, eyes open. I brought a hand to her back, lifted the zipper and brought it down half an inch.

"May I?"

She nodded, and I pulled it down the rest of the way, pushed the fabric away from her shoulders and down over her hips. This time was slow, deliberate. She set the pace, and watched me throughout. Later, when we were spent and wrapped in blankets, I broke the silence.

"Who did you pretend you were with in Rome?"

There was a long pause before she replied.

"I didn't pretend."

"Sydney, what are we doing?"

"We're trying to sleep."

"That's not what I'm asking."

She propped her torso up on her elbows and looked down at me.

"Well it's the only answer you'll get from me right now."

She fell back against my chest and in minutes her breathing was slow and regular. It took me far longer to find sleep.


	11. Stone Smiles

Chapter 11: Stone Smiles

(Sark)

The estate is as I remember: a crumbling seventeenth century castle tucked into the foothills of the Alps. The trees are half bare already: mere skeletons stooped over dry grass. Sydney stares out the window, her gaze like the sphinx. On my right, Irina is transfixed by her laptop. The display is polarized: I cannot see what she is working on. The silence has been interminable.

"I had your old quarters prepared, Julian," she says, as the car pulls to a stop in front of them main entrance. Sydney's leg tenses under my hand at her offhand use of my given name. Irina quirks her lips into a knowing smile before continuing: "I assume you'll be sharing the suite."

"That will be fine," I reply coolly. Sydney follows me up the stone steps and through the heavy wooden doors into the tiled entryway.

"I have business to attend to," she tells us, already walking away down the hallway to the right. "You should rest."

"I want to talk, first," Sydney replies, voice hard.

"Sweetheart," Irina turns to face us, "I can tell you're tired. Let Julian take you upstairs to rest. We will talk later."

Irina walks away, and I start up the stairs. Sydney stares after her for a moment, stiff with anger. "Don't call me sweetheart," she says, when Irina is already out of sight.

"Sydney?" I call, leaning over the second floor railing. She looks up at me, face softening into half a smile. "Let it go. She is using us, she has always used us. This time, we get to return the favor."

(Sydney)

He's right, of course. I follow him down the wide second storey hallway. Carved wood doors interrupt dark wood paneling, above us the stone ceiling is arched cathedral style and tinged dark by age and smoke. He walks as if he owns the place. Near the end he opens a door on our left. _Your old quarters, Julian._ He isn't yours, mother. And neither am I, anymore.

We enter a large, spare room. The curtains are drawn open. Dark forested hills rise up to meet an overcast sky. There are bookshelves and a desk, a brown leather couch in ill repair, and several more doors. The bedroom is dominated by a low platform bed, piled high with black pillows and a high-loft comforter.

"There is electricity, but not much heat on this floor."

After Bermuda, I'm not sure I care. He slips off his shoes and slides into bed. I sit down next to him, lean over to take off my high boots.

"Do you trust her?" I find myself asking.

(Sark)

"Do you trust her?" she asks out of the blue. After she left me in custody for two years? Or before?

"No. Do you?"

She pulls the collar of her shirt aside, exposing a pale, puckered scar at her shoulder. I reach out, run my thumb over the delicate skin. A bullet wound, small caliber, but short range. I've never asked her about it.

"Taipei. The first time I saw her in twenty years. That woman…" she breaks off, looks away as if to collect herself. "She's not my mother, not really. At least, I'm not Irina's daughter. My mom was Laura Bristow, and Laura is gone."

I lean forward, kiss the scar and run my fingers across her face. No tears, not in front of me. Though her eyes are liquid and she's fighting for control. Irina practically adopted me, but I grew up in boarding school. I could never imagine her being tender with a child, being a mother.

"It's hard for you to keep them separate, isn't it? Those two women, wearing the same face?"

She nods, and finally the tears fall, silently. Sydney curls into my side and her cheeks wet my shoulder.

"I love you, Sydney," I whisper, when her breathing has slowed and she is lax with sleep.

(Sydney)

I woke before him, in the dim blue twilight. He mumbled when I slipped out of his arms, but didn't stir. My eyes were sandpaper and the room was cold.

Back in the study, the first two doors I opened led to empty rooms, nothing more than a gym mat in the corner or cobwebs strung from the light fixtures. Finally I found the bathroom, updated in the twenties, with green tile walls and a claw foot tub. The water ran hot, at least, though I froze as I stripped and waited for the bath to fill. She called these rooms his, but this place is nothing like him. At least, there is nothing in this empty place that reflects who he is.

Under the sink I find full bottles of vanilla shampoo, French milled soap, boutique lotions and perfume with the seals still unbroken, clearly stocked for me, courtesy of Irina. He has probably spent more time with her than I have. There is no tinge of jealousy, though, for the years she spent sculpting him while I grew up with a dead mother and an absentee father.

He loves me though, Dad, in his stoic, understated way. He would do anything to save me, to keep me safe. Has saved me, and done a million smaller things to keep me happy, at least to try and salvage something from my fractured life. As I have saved him, from time to time, from death by torture at SD-6, from life in custody after my apparent death, citing an invented conspiracy reaching all the way to Congress, which ironically turned out to be true. He belongs to me, as I belong to him, in our strange family of two.

The water is barely tepid when there is a knock at the door, and Sark steps in.

"Wine?"

I take the glass he offers, sip the ruby liquid. I haven't eaten in hours and the alcohol warms me quickly.

"Showtime?" I ask. He is sitting on the closed toilet seat in his boxers and a T shirt, looking entirely too casual and blasé.

"Half an hour."

We clink glasses, and I drain the rest quickly.

(Sark)

She's pushing food around her plate, taking miniscule bites when Irina looks her way. What a waste of Kobe steak, hydroponic greens, aged parmesagna reggiano. But if she eats too many pomegranate seeds she'll be trapped in the Underworld forever, I suppose. While the world out there withers and dies.

"We need protection, for awhile, until things cool down," Sydney finally speaks.

Irina finishes chewing, takes a sip of wine and daps at her lips with a napkin.

"What makes you think I can help you?"

"You have contacts, within the former Covenant. They've obviously discovered our extracurricular activities. You can call off the hounds, some of them at least," I reply. Unlike Sydney, I expected hoops to jump through.

"I am owed certain favors. I suppose I could call in a few, for a price."

"You'd kill your firstborn for a price. But, wait, you already tried."

Sydney's voice is like ice, matched only by Irina's sudden scowl.

"With the Covenant largely deposed, we do have access to considerable funds. What is your price?" I ask, ignoring her interjection. This is supposed to be a negotiation, not a confrontation. Irina is still, her hands folded beneath the table. Sydney has a fist closed around her steak knife.

"Twenty million Euros, and I can arrange safe housing with a syndicate in Ireland. Two years and the rest will fall apart. I can dispose of the few important players remaining after your blitzkrieg. I never knew you had it in you, Sydney, to be such a cold assassin."

"I learned from the best. Dad, of course. You should have killed me when you could. I was so small when I was born. It would have been so easy," the prodigal daughter sneered.

"Enough, Sydney!" Irina yelled, her hand coming down hard on the table.

"Twently millions Euros, wired to the account of your choice. We can conclude the transaction in the morning."

I have never been the peacekeeper. I felt more like the unfortunate messenger, a go-between out of his league.

"They're your words, not mine."

"They were listening. I had a cover to keep up. We've been through this already."

"Not to my satisfaction."

"What more do you want from me?"

"I spoke at Emily's funeral, talked about how she was like the mother I never had, since mine died in a car crash. Off course, I could barely move my arm to adjust the microphone, since you came back from the dead just in time to shoot me."

"It's been a long day, a long flight. Perhaps we should go to bed?"

Sydney ignored me.

"I had to make it appear real," she pleaded.

"Which do you regret more, Irina? Abandoning me? Or having me in the first place?"

"Sydney!"

"What?" she hissed, still staring at her nemesis, her mother.

"She's not worth it."

"It was so hard, Sydney. Leaving you was the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm just thankful that I got the chance to see you again, to know you."

Irina's voice was soft, repentant. Sydney uncurled her fingers from around the knife, dropped her hand into her lap, and suddenly the tension seemed to melt from her shoulders completely.

"It was harder to see you again, mother, than it was to mourn your death."

Sydney was out of her seat in a flash, and out the door. Irina seemed to crumple in her chair. Never had she seemed so small.

"I don't understand her. I don't understand what I did to deserve her hostility," she spoke, turning to me. Her loyal lackey? Her trained lap dog?

"Good night, Irina."

I left her there, in the dining room. She sat at the head of the table: master of no one.

(Sydney)

"What the bloody hell were you hoping to accomplish by that display downstairs?"

He slammed the door behind him, and I jumped, startled. The sky was inky black and starless.

"I wanted to hurt her."

"Well congratulations: you've pissed off the woman we're asking to protect us."

"You're taking her side?" I asked, incredulously.

"Don't be such a fucking child!"

I slapped him, hard, across the cheek. Something in his eyes darkened, and I matched his step forward with one in retreat. There was violence in the way he looked at me, the way he moved. For a moment I thought he might actually hit me back. But he turned toward the desk, and threw the wooden chair across the room. It hit the wall with a sharp crack, and he just stood there, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

"She's not your mother, Sydney, as you've pointed out so many times. She's not the enemy. You can't have it both ways. You can't disown her and then blame her for bad parenting."

"You have no idea what I've been through with her."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly happy to see her either."

"I'm sorry."

(Sark)

I walked away from her, seething, into the bedroom and wrapped myself in the thick down comforter. She didn't follow. I woke up hours later, in the middle of the night, and the bed beside me was still empty. I found her in one of the other rooms, curled up on a gym mat using her coat as a blanket. She was shivering: there was a fine tremor in her arms and her nail beds were pale, almost blue. Oh Sydney, my stubborn impulsive Sydney. We hurt the ones we love, we hurt ourselves. Anything to avoid this crushing attachment, this crippling love.

"Apology accepted."

I carried her back into the bedroom, tucked her under the covers with me, in my arms. She turned towards me, muttering something in her sleep. I fell asleep soon after, complete if not content, comfortable if not at ease. We love each other but we haven't said the words. There is still too much darkness between us.


	12. Gauze

Chapter 10: Gauze

(Sydney)

"They're coming," he gasped between tortured breaths. We were running for our lives, feet pounding on pavement. I turn briefly and fire off another round. I think I hear a scream, the sound of a body falling. More likely it is wishful thinking. I don't reply to Sark. There is nothing to add. We are running. They are running. Bullets hit the pavement at our feet.

We round the corner of the warehouse and practically run into the second security detail. The detail that according to all our intel was not supposed to exist. There are four of them. I down one with a bullet to the head, and knock another unconscious with the butt of my gun. But there are still two left, forcing an engagement, the other men with guns no doubt approaching.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Sark disarm the taller man. Mine is shorter but dense and well-trained in hand to hand. A brutal kick to the ribs sends me to the ground clutching by side and gasping for air. A second kick to the stomach. All I can do is try to roll away from his steel-toed boots, try to gather breath to stand. He pulls out a knife.

Sark comes out of nowhere and knocks him off balance. The knife aimed for my neck merely glances a bicep. The guard is down. Permanently. And I feel only relief watching Sark kill the man with his bare hands.

"Come on!"

He jerks me up by my injured arm, sends a spray of bullets behind us as we run, pain shooting down my arm and through my side.

(Sark)

She's favoring her right arm. I don't realize she was stabbed until we run under a flickering light and I see the blood seeping through her shirt. But there's nothing I can do about it now.

"Faster!" I scream at her. Her face is grim. "There's nothing wrong with your legs!" Her only response is a crude gesture that doesn't bear repeating.

The gap is getting bigger. The bullets are hitting the ground behind us: we're almost out of range. A three-minute push should have us at the car. Three-minutes of bone-jarring, leg burning agony, even more so for Sydney, I'm sure. And we're there. I jump in the driver's seat and have the car in gear before she's even shut the door.

(Sydney)

The safehouse is in a poor neighborhood in Paris: a grungy apartment with a broken kitchen table and threadbare sheets on the bed. Perhaps it wouldn't seem so shabby if our operation had gone according to plan.

"We failed, didn't we?" I ask him. He's sitting at the kitchen table breaking down his gun, meticulously cleaning the action.

"I got one of his bodyguards, but not Vuilleumier."

"You don't seem concerned about it."

"Are you?"

"Someone must have known we were coming."

"No, they would have changed the meet if they had known. Our intel was faulty. That's it. Or he stepped up security after we killed Milner. They were friends."

I walked to the bathroom and found gauze in the medicine cabinet. The sleeve of my shirt was stiff with blood. I tried to peel it off over my head, but when I started to lift my arm the pain was so intense I let it fall back to my side, and retched into the sink. Nothing came up. I was caught between waves of nausea and shooting pain now that the adrenaline of the chase had worn off.

Sark stood in the doorframe, something close to concern on his face. Only now did I notice his lip was split and bloody and he had the beginning of a black eye.

(Sark)

"Let me help you with that."

She nodded, and sat down on the toilet seat. I cut the sleeve off her shirt above the wound, and then down the length of her arm. I peel the fabric away as carefully as I can. It was three inches long, and perhaps half an inch deep. She winced as I cleaned it with alcohol. And watched coolly as I wrapped it in gauze until the blood stopped seeping through.

"Any others?" I asked. She lifted the hem of her shirt with her good arm in response, exposing two fist-sized bruises on her stomach and over the bottom of her rib cage.

"I think he may have cracked a rib."

"There's not much we can do about that."

"I know."

"Are you hungry? There's canned soup in the kitchen."

"I don't really feel like food."

"Neither do I."

"Let's just sleep."

And we did. She curled on her good side, her head tucked against my chest. I ran my fingers through her hair, again and again. It was greasy and tangled from crawling through the ducts and running for her life. Her face was dull with dust and the dried salt of sweat. She was beautiful.

A/N: We are now caught up to Ch 1. They went to Detroit after the disaster in Paris. No more flashback chapters.


	13. The Burren

Chapter 13: The Burren

(Sydney)

It was like driving on the moon. The landscape was barren, volcanic, grey, sterile. We were the only car on the highway, as we drove towards Gleninagh. We stopped at the castle like good tourists, walked around the crumbled base and felt the salt spray from the ocean two hundred feet below us. Or should I be thinking in meters now?

Irina's idea of protection is a cheap flat in a remote fishing village on the coast. I dress in bulky sweaters and loose pants that hide my form as I try to learn Gaelic phrases, to blend in at the market, where I buy fresh fish and bread to feed us. Sark has a job unloading the fishing boats when they come in from week-long trips, exhausted and low in the water, weighed down by the North Atlantic salmon and cod. He helps refueling, too, and getting the boats ready to go out again.

There is a hierarchy here, like everywhere else, and it has nothing to do with the petty government officials that are paid to confer over strong beer in the pubs on their lunch breaks. Sark kowtows to the man who really runs things, one Seamus O'Neil who is rather indebted to Irina, and I try to fit in with the women holding babies on their laps and scolding errant children. I've heard them talking about us, about me, the barren woman with the American accent.

(Sark)

This is an ironic punishment. Send me back to where you found me, Irina. Make me blend in, in the once place I never fit. My hands and my clothes smell like fish, no matter how many times Sydney puts them through the washer. This is what I escaped from, so many years ago. And here I am again, trying not to lose myself, trying not to lose her, most of all.

I see her strained face when no one else is looking. She is horrified by the sexual politics here. Babies and babies and more crying babies. The men drink to forget, bed women to forget the ones they have at home. Pregnant again every spring, changing diapers again in the fall.

But there has been no trouble. No trouble at all.

(Sydney)

He hates this. So do I, but it's nothing personal. He hates this place with far too much familiarity. I peel potatoes at the kitchen sink, no garbage disposal of course, while he grills cod on our tiny balcony. Lemon juice and tarragon for flavor, baked potatoes as a side, and a pint of Guinness to smooth it all over. This is not what I envisioned for our glamorous life on the run. But it's safe. So far.

He makes me put on my nice skirt and drags me out onto the streets in the dark, to the edge, the crashing ocean lit by moonlight.

"Sydney, I don't ever want to lose you."

"Why would you? You won't lose me."

"I barely have you. I want to keep you."

"I'm yours."

"No. You're trapped inside yourself, walled in, and I'm outside waiting for the barrier to come down."

"Like you're any better. You're a glacier, you're ice. Your heart is frozen."

"Sydney, I love you. I love you more every day."

"I—"

The look in his eyes is both expectation and resignation. And pain.

"I wish I could say the same."

"Not tonight. I know it won't be tonight."

Back at the musty flat we tangle in the frayed sheets and use each other to escape. He's still fast asleep when I wake up at four, restless and ragged. I pull on shoes and go running inland, past farmhouses and cows. I can see my breath in the chill air. Another gloomy day awaits.

(Sark)

She's gone when I wake up, alone in the cold, empty flat. I put on water for tea and read yesterday's news at the kitchen table. Saturday: the streets are quiet for awhile. The tea is still steeping when she comes in the door flushed and breathing hard. She showers while I make eggs and toast. The day, like every other, passes slowly. We read the paper, bike for miles along the coast, and drink our pints at the pub while a local band plays near the front. There are people we know: not friends, but they come over to where we're sitting in the corner, greet us as Shannon and Eric, our aliases, and ask how we're doing. We make small talk until they go away.


	14. Dublin

Chapter 14: Dublin

(Sark)

Irina communicates via O'Neil, who keeps us informed of the death toll, the price on our heads. But then she sends word for us to go to Dublin for the weekend, that it's safe enough for us to do this. Sydney is excited. She packs clothes she never gets to wear around here: knee high boots and slim sweaters, a leather trench coat she picked up in Russia.

It's a four hour trip. I'm at the wheel, and she's watching out the window. It feels good to be moving again. We're anonymous, free from the cover we maintain in Gleninagh. Cows and sheep and drying sod give way to the hazy gasoline smell of every city. The Westin is across the street from Trinity College, not exactly low profile, but after six months in the Styx with no major activity reported, we can risk it. Valet parking, room service: I order up red wine and rack of lamb as soon as we're checked in.

(Sydney)

The bathroom is all marble tile and sleek fixtures. Behind frosted glass, the shower is divine. Hot water, high pressure, soap that smells like sage and lemongrass. I must have stood under the spray for half an hour. By the time I wrap myself in a terrycloth robe and step back into the room, Sark is sipping red wine, a loopy half-grin on his face. He hands me a glass, and we eat New Zealand lamb and hydroponic greens drizzled with balsamic vinegar and Italian olive oil. I will be happy if I never see another potato in my life.

Spring is wet and dreary in the city, but we head out onto Grafton Street—it's barely a block from the hotel—full and slightly buzzed, and find boutiques and brand names and upscale jewelers. I don't buy anything in Gleninagh but food and toilet paper. There I must blend in, drab, and fade into the alias. Glamorous. Really. I miss dressing up, even for a mission, with makeup and jewelry and a knife hidden in my boots or at my thigh.

(Sark)

We split up to do our own errands. After commissioning two suits to be tailored the same day, I head to Weir & Sons, making sure Sydney is nowhere in sight. The cases are littered with so many Claddagh rings and ordinary trifles. But it's there, the perfect ring: one and a half carat brilliant cut, internally flawless, flanked by tapered baguettes. Because I am ice, and she is trapped, and together we are something more. For a fee they size it while I wait. It all goes on Irina's tab, of course. Our assets are hidden, almost inaccessible. I buy a chain, so Sydney can wear it hidden under her clothes when we return.

She's in the bathroom when I get back: at the mirror half dressed, applying eyeliner, lipstick the color of a fine roset. Across her lower abdomen the surgical scar has paled to white, a testament to her lost years and a reminder of what led us here. Vengeance, a long time coming. She is stunning all in black, knee high boots and a thin sweater with beading at the open neck. I haven't seen her look so alive in months, since before our awful fishing village, before Cuba even. It was Paris. She was fighting and furiously alive in Paris.

I hold her coat as she slips her arms in, guide her to the elevator with my hand at the small of her back. Smiling, she turns to kiss me. Her hand rests in the crook of my elbow as we walk.

"Reservation for Bob Brown," I tell the hostess. Tucked away in a corner our small table is draped in white, set with silverware and napkins folded into fans. I order champagne, and remember our first date, at a French restaurant in the Ukraine. She had just shot Petrov and I was still reeling from the disaster with Vagt in Moscow.

"To freedom, and to our future."

(Sydney)

He toasts and we drink. The lighting is dim. His skin is pale against the charcoal suit and black dress shirt. I admire the way he holds the delicate crystal in his hands, gentle and precise. Those are the same hands that so expertly fire a sniper rifle, the same hands that I've seen calloused and bloody from fights.

We flounder about for conversation: can't talk about our fugitive status in public, don't want to talk about the dismal months in Gleninagh. And really, what else is there for us to say? What else do we have in common?

The waitress clears away the dinner plates, and scrapes the bread crumbs off the tablecloth. We drink red wine in silence, and then he is grasping my left hand across the small table.

"Sydney, when this is all over, when we're done running, what will you do?"

"I haven't thought about it much. I'v wanted to get out of this life for so long, but part of me misses the excitement."

"Do you want to do stay in the business? Or are you just unhappy with our current village life?"

"It Gleninagh that's the problem, really. I feel I'm dying of boredom there."

"We never discussed payment, but for your instrumental role in recovering my inheritance, I will give you a third of my assets, should you choose to strike out on your own."

I was furious. Did he really think of me as nothing more than an employee? A convenience?

"You're going to pay me? For helping you take them down, or for warming your bed the past year?"

"Sydney, stay calm. You'll make a scene. Please, just listen. I would like nothing more than to have you stay with me. You've asked me over and over what I want from you, if I really want you, and the answer is yes. The answer is always yes. But you've never told me what you want. You've never expressed love, or even attachment, besides a stubborn unwillingness to leave. I would let you walk away, and I would give you enough to spend the rest of your life anyway you please, because I love you. I have seen you at your best and worst and I am in awe of you every day. Nothing would make me happier than to have you with me forever. But I need to hear it from you, Sydney. You need to say it."

But everyone who loves me, they all die in the end. Danny—it took me months to take off the ring, after I found him in the bathtub. Will's life is as good as ruined because of me. Noah, though at least I killed him outright. And then Simon, though I don't even remember that relationship. I'm a curse on the men in my life.

And I think I know what's coming next.

(Sark)

I saw the waitress approaching in my peripheral vision, and turned to motion her away. Sydney looked on the verge of tears, either angry or elated. She was staring at our hands, interlocked on the table between us.

"I do want you. I am attached to you," she says softly, but she isn't meeting my eyes and something in my chest tightens to breaking point, waiting for the bad news.

"Do you love me?"

I fish the small box out of my pocket, flip it open. She looks at it, and then at me, and shakes her head, finally manages to whisper 'no'. I don't believe her for a second. Still, everything shatters when she puts her napkin on the table and walks away.

I waited for her. If I were to be honest, I knew she wasn't coming back. But I ordered dessert, and paid the bill, and tipped the waitress well for not saying a word about my companion's hasty exit.

And inside, everything human left inside me broke apart.


	15. Fallout

Chapter 15: Fallout

(Sark)

It took me half an hour to find her. Trial and error. She was in the fifth bar I checked, perched at the counter drinking a martini, her second in thirty minutes, judging by the empty glass in front of her. There's a man to her right, chatting her up, touching her elbow, and I could kill him in cold blood right now. I step in on her left, taking the glass from her and finishing off the vodka and vermouth. She looks at me, and I can tell she's drunk, the way her eyes keep jumping laterally to keep me in focus.

"What are you doing here?"

"Taking you back to the hotel, Syd."

"I'm not done with my drink."

"I think you've had enough."

"One more."

I move to pull her from her chair but she slaps my hands away, almost falling over in the process. I don't want to make a scene, so I let her drain the rest of the glass in one long swallow and order another. I pay up her tab while she taps the spear of olives on the rim and pulls them off one by one. By now her admirer has moved on to easier prospects. A few more minutes pass in awkward silence as she drinks her third martini. She stiffens when I put my arm around her shoulders, but relaxes after a few more minutes. Too drunk to care anymore, probably.

(Sydney)

I don't remember walking back to the hotel. But suddenly we're in the elevator, and I'm holding onto the railing to keep myself upright. Julian is in the corner across from me, scowling. I just want to curl up on the floor until my head stops spinning. But he's talking to me, asking me something, if I want him to get me a separate room. I start to shake my head, but that was a bad idea, so I squeak out a soft "no" instead and watch him go back to scowling, arms crossed, contemplating the elevator doors.

I want him to look at me, to hold me, to tell me I'll be alright in the morning. But I haven't told him how when I move my head the world takes seconds to catch up. So I grip the railing until my knuckles are white and try to stay upright.

The chime sounds at our floor, the doors open, and he is nice enough to hold me upright as we walk down the hallway, his arm around my waist. In our suite I stumble into the bathroom and kneel on the cold tile.

"Drink this."

I think I may have passed out, because now I'm sitting with my back against the wall and my boots and sweater are off. Julian is crouched down in front of me, with a glass of ice water.

"No. Can't."

"It'll help."

I take a few sips but it isn't helping.

(Sark)

She's conscious again, but pale and diaphoretic. I take the water from her, and a minute later she is sliding down the wall, eyes closing.

"Stay with me, Syd."

"Julian."

"What?"

"I don't feel right. I don't feel good."

I get up to grab snacks from the in suite fridge, and she's calling after me, asking me not to leave her. Never to leave her. And her next words freeze me in my tracks.

"You can't go, Julian. You can't leave me now. I need you. I need you."

"Why, Sydney?"

"I don't want to do this alone. I can't do this alone."

"Why do you need me Syd?"

"Love you, Julian, don't go. You can't leave me."

Her voice is fading again, thin and reedy, and her eyes are falling shut. I shake her gently awake and she smiles at me. And then she is crouched over the toilet bringing up three martinis and half of her dinner. Her skin is cool and clammy but she's stopped sweating, and her eyes are fixed on me. I help her to the sink to brush her teeth and drink more water. I peel her blouse and skirt off while she stands still, slightly swaying. She's asleep almost before I get her into bed.

(Sydney)

He is there when I wake up, sitting in the arm chair closest to my head, staring at me. I stretch and yawn, open my eyes and close them again quickly against the morning light.

"Good morning, Sydney."

I wonder if he will pretend that nothing happened, hope that he will let it go.

"Sark."

"Do you remember anything from last night?"

He's already dressed, in black pants and a gray collared shirt, black silk tie. So formal. And I'm in bed, nearly naked, feeling so exposed. And I do remember everything I said to him. And why is it so bright in here? I remember what I said and it's true but he wasn't supposed to know. He isn't supposed to know that I need him. It's taken over a year and I've finally learned that he loves me, that he cares about me. He puts up with everything I throw his way and still hasn't left me. He hasn't died from getting caught up in my world, and he still loves me. But he wasn't supposed to know how much I need him, too. He isn't supposed to know how much I depend on him, because that makes me vulnerable.

"Yes."

"Did you mean what you said?"

"About what?"

"Don't play coy. This is important."

And here it is. I shouldn't tell him. I'm sober and he knows it and it'll be for real this time, no taking it back.

"Yes, I meant it."

And there's a tight coil of dread in my stomach, so irrational, as I wait for his response, for rejection. But he's smiling and kissing me and tackling me back into bed.

"My Sydney, Sydney…."

I should hate the possessive note in his voice but it feels good to belong, to be loved like that, loved whole, all of me.

"Say it again."

"What?"

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you, Julian."

And then he's kissing a trail of fire down my neck, across my shoulders, fumbling to take the rest of my clothes off as I pull his tie loose and unbutton his shirt. And we make love in the late morning light until my stomach is growling.

(Sark)

The afternoon is cool and moist, but it has finally stopped raining. Hazy light filters through the layers of cloud over the city. We find a pub still serving breakfast at one, and Sydney devours her Ulster fry with black coffee. This time, when I ask her over breakfast to marry me, she says yes, and lets me slip the ring onto her slender finger. And there is something inside my chest that's coiling and tightening as I watch her admire the sparkle of the ring in the tenuous light.


End file.
